


find the words and the beat

by irnan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 14:42:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6614647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irnan/pseuds/irnan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Natasha is something of an Iron Woobie, Bucky is human and needs to be loved, just like everybody else does, and there's a lot of Melodramatic Feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	find the words and the beat

 

“Well this is inconvenient,” Natasha said. “And don’t think you’re helping, by lying there and being, what, four hundred pounds of solid muscle, or whatever.”

“Sorry,” Barnes rasped. His teeth were literally chattering. Natasha hadn’t heard that happen to anyone since her training. “Not that heavy, though.”

“You’ll bite your tongue off if you keep trying to talk.” They staggered drunkenly across the clearing to the Quinjet, her frozen fingers buried in his coat, dragging him as best as she could. Her bruised ribs ached like hell, and every movement made it agony to breathe. Of course, so did the cold.

“Hah.” He was breathing hard, shaking all over, his hair crusted with ice. “Thanks for – coming to get me.”

“I couldn’t have faced Steve if I’d let you die,” she said. “Sackcloth, ashes, wailing, beating of breasts. Been there, done that.”

Barnes made a strangled wheezing noise in his chest that she thought was laughter.

Scrambling up the Quinjet’s ramp was just about impossible; they basically crawled, Natasha hauling Barnes by the shoulders, into the blissful, welcoming heat, and when the ramp had closed she sighed in relief.

“Thank god.” Then she pulled her knife out and attacked Barnes’ frozen clothes. He let her, with a look that suggested it was a painful necessity he would submit to in order to not die but would hate every second of.

That kind of stung. The Soldier – but no version of the Winter Soldier was left in the man before her, not really, not even the one she had – you know. But it comforted her to see the similarities between him and Barnes: the sense of fun that had used to come out when they were on stakeouts together, the professionalism and personal loyalty, the total impatience with incompetence or sloppy work. She’d seen him break a man’s jaw for neglecting to verify his intel, thereby putting the op – Natasha – in danger. She supposed that might yet happen with the Avengers if some bumbling analyst ever got Steve in trouble.

The floor of the jet was beginning to heat; the ice in her hair was melting in what felt like a torrent, dripping down her neck to the floor – and onto Barnes, as she sawed open his belt and waistband. He was struggling to pull the ripped coat off, the sweater and the t-shirt beneath, and Natasha let him, attacking the laces of his boots with the knife before, triumphant, she sat up and started clawing at her own clothing. Modesty was not a virtue right now. Naked, she crawled, her limbs shaking, to the lockers under the seats and produced a fistful of towels, two huge fluffy blankets, and a pile of proper thermal ones.

“That was Stark,” said Barnes behind her. “The fluffy ones?” His teeth were no longer chattering; that was good. But he was breathing hard and very fast and his voice was hoarse.

“Yes,” said Natasha, passing him a towel without looking. “He was very strongly against the standard issue Army stuff that Steve was happy to equip us with.”

“Steve’s a Spartan at heart.” There was a noise as he bundled up and threw away the piles of iced-up clothes they had just ruined, between them, before he towelled himself dry, where necessary, as vigorously as he could manage. Natasha didn’t trust herself to stand up, so she stayed kneeling to rub herself down, not with her back to him, but not facing him either; plausible deniability, and god knew she was glad he wasn’t dying or getting hypothermia or anything, but why couldn’t he have been safely unconscious, so she didn’t have to be so _aware_ of the fact that he was probably looking at her naked body, and even if he wasn’t he could?

She squeezed the water out of her hair as best she could, dismally reminded that the Quinjet was not stocked with a hairdryer. Something soft touched her knee; when she looked up Barnes had spread, slightly haphazardly, one of Tony’s rich people blankets across the floor. He was drinking out of a water bottle, his throat working as he swallowed, his head tilted back so that his body was a long powerful line from knees to throat, and if it weren’t for the shivers and the goosebumps and the fact that his fingers were cramping and clearly not quite functional and his lips were a _little_ blue, he’d be beautiful. 

Body heat it was, then. Natasha caught the second blanket and the thermal ones and shook them out ready to pull over their bodies. She caught one of the towels and crawled over to Barnes.

“What?”

She slung the fluffy blanket round his shoulders, awkwardly, making him hold his left arm out.

“There’s no point us getting under there if you’re going to melt snow all over us.” The towel rubbed through the rills of his arm, catching here and there; she tugged and rubbed and worked it into the crevices between the plates around his elbow, made him flex his fingers so she was sure his hand was dry. “Can you feel it?” she asked suddenly.

“The pressure,” he said. “Yes. Not, not proper sensation.” All of a sudden he sounded exhausted. “Romanov…”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said. “We’ve still got to get home.” They couldn’t fly the jet in this weather; they would probably have to get out in a few hours and do some shovelling. The wind had picked up, moaning angrily, and the snow was falling faster. Already you couldn’t see out of the cockpit. There was some strange tightness in her chest, kneeling here so close to him while he looked down at her naked body, something that made her nauseous, laid her open to attack.

“Don’t brush it off,” he said quietly. “You’ve been a good friend to Steve, and to me, but you never let me –”

There was only one possible answer. “We’re not friends.”

For a heartbeat he was very still. “No. Of course.” Blank and soulless as a robot.

Her cheeks were hot. For an instant it was all on the tip of her tongue, but last time had led to nothing but bullet wounds and pain, and no other experience she had suffered while free and out in the world had suggested to her that anything would be different if she flayed herself like that again, so she didn’t. What had ever possessed her to do it in the first place?

“Which way?” he said, crisp.

She gestured; he turned his back to her, let her spoon him, pressed all against his back. They piled the blankets on top of them, and as their body heat filled up the space he made a noise, something that might have started out a sigh of relief that was quickly strangled.  No weaknesses here.

“Your feet aren’t frostbitten?” she said suddenly.

“I don’t get frostbite,” he said. “It’s total system shutdown or nothing.”

But that just made her worry that he was much closer to dying than she realised, if he didn’t react to extreme cold the way she did. Did Steve get frostbite? she wondered in the back of her mind, even as she said, “I don’t much want to be saddled with your corpse unexpectedly, Barnes, so –”

“Romanov,” he said, and suddenly he sounded immeasurably tired. “Be a good little spider and let me sleep, will you. We can go over your checklist for Steve or Fury or whoever in a few hours.”

_Little spider_ , dismissive and condescending. He had used to call her _Natalia_ , and _beloved_ , and _vixen_ , for the colour of her hair, and because he knew she’d hated it. _James_ would be fair retaliation. They’d had private jokes, and code words, and a kind of sign language all their own, loading every ordinary gesture with meanings just for one another. _I love you. I miss you. Don’t look at me or I’ll start laughing. Come to me tonight. One day we’ll be free of this place_.

Apparently not. Natasha put her head down and closed her eyes, longing for oblivion.

+++

When she woke she shot up gasping, water dripping down her face, and realised that he’d poured a bottle of it over her head. The blankets were soaked, bunched in her lap, and though the Quinjet was warm now her skin was pebbled with goosebumps, her nipples hard. She crossed her arms over her breasts, heaving for breath, her right side on fire. He was on her left, so hadn’t seen the bruises. Small mercies.

“You were screaming,” he said, cold and impersonal as a marble statue. “It seemed safest not to come within arm’s length.”

“I’m not armed, you dick,” she rasped, shivering.

“Did you need to be?” He’d dug their spare clothes out, was on his feet and dressing; there were rations too. And the microwave was humming. If she got a pot of halfways decent coffee in the next three minutes Natasha swore she would never laugh at Tony’s ideas about necessities again, never. Only when she was sure Barnes had turned his back and was concentrating on something else did she hide her face against her knees and shake.

“God,” she said, wiping her face dry. “I should’ve let you die.”

Ten hours ago he would have laughed. “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he said. “You tried. It’s not your fault Steve’s a fool.” The words cut her like a whiplash, summoning up her nightmare again, the grey concrete walls and the sound of his screaming echoing off them and the way Madame had said to him, _who is she_ , and he had turned to look at Natasha and said _I don’t know_ and meant it.

“Up and at ‘em, Widow,” he said. “We’ve got to shovel at least some of the snow off this bucket before we can go anywhere.” There. Make a joke, relax a little, put up some illusion of friendliness… Natasha dressed in silence, turned away from him, and thanked him in monosyllables for the food and the coffee. She was too tired to put any mask on but the most basic. Her head was spinning.

The sun had come out, thank god, which meant that behind her sunglasses he wouldn’t see her eyes, and she wrapped her scarf around the lower half of her face as they waited for the ramp to lower, the mechanics straining against the ice crusting the edges, until, with a tinkering noise, it cracked all at once and fell down. They had to shovel their way out, and then she took right and he went left, trying to get rid of the worst of it. Despite the food she’d eaten she felt about as weak as a newborn kitten, and with every movement she made with the shovel her ribs screamed at her. Christ, she was an idiot, an idiot. Where was the use in this? Would it get them out sooner? Make her feel better? Was it all so she could make herself collapse and cry _you’ll be sorry when I’m dead_ , the way Lila had at Christmas last year when Clint had told her that she had absolutely had more than enough Christmas pudding and would not be getting any more?

Natasha cackled to herself. That was a more apt comparison than you’d think: she’d had her Christmas pudding, or at least spoonfuls of it, here and there, enough to show her how good it tasted, and then someone had come along and flung the whole huge dish into the trash, and she was left with – Christ, this metaphor was ridiculous. She should have taken a painkiller at least, but she hadn’t wanted him to see that she was hurt. _We’re not friends_. Kinder to stab him, Romanov. He didn’t have many friends, not the kind she counted friends, the kind who trusted him absolutely and unquestionably. Well, neither did she. The cruel thing was that he had had, once. You could see it in him, that he had been the kind of person people liked and trusted and took their troubles to, and that he still did like people, on the whole, that he wanted that ease with them back. But he was always so astonished when Steve trusted him, let alone anyone else. She knew the feeling.

“We all have our cross to bear,” she told the shovel piously, and drove it, viciously, into the snow again: too sudden and too quick. The pain shot white-hot up her side, and her knees buckled; she breathed harshly and gripped the handle till the imprint was burned permanently into her skin.

Behind her he said, “What have you done to yourself?” and she was too hurt to even whip round and hold a gun on him the way she wanted to.

“Bruised,” she said, “bruised ribs, didn’t realise – take a painkiller. Be fine.” Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. In through your nose, out through your mouth.

“Up to you,” he said, uncaring, and walked off again. The snow was melting through the knees of her spare uniform. She thrust the shovel into the snow until it was moderately steady and started to push herself to her feet, and then, finally, the oblivion she’d longed for earlier; the white world spun and the earth wobbled underneath her, and Natasha gave up.

+++

“Natalia,” her Soldier said, his loved voice very near, “don’t do this to me, sweetheart, I need you, I need you to keep me on the straight and narrow.” He laughed, broken, a little desperate, and something cool touched her hot face, her throat; then her armpits. It was dark here, and she was so cold inside, her skin hot and angry, but he was close, and so it was bearable, somehow. She wanted to tell him – wanted to tell him so much. “I swear to god above I’ll never lay eyes on you again if that’s what you want, but come back to me, Tasha. Just come back.”

+++

Consciousness came back accompanied by a jackhammer pounding into her skull in much the way Natasha assumed a hangover felt. The Quinjet was in the air, which didn’t help, the noise of the engines making her whimper, but there was a bottle of water and a painkiller by her bunk, which she scooped up eagerly, and if she lay very still and closed her eyes…

Paracetamol had always made her hyper. When the pain had died down she was wide awake and almost good as new. Barnes had stripped her again to bandage her side, not tightly, but the pad beneath the bandages was slathered with something to make the swelling go down; she could feel it sticky on her skin. Breathing too deep was a big, big mistake. Sitting up made her dizzy, but she managed.

Barnes had been at the cockpit; when he saw her move he came over to her. His face was pale, his mouth pinched, but when he met her eyes he was as calm and impersonal as before.

“There’s food.”

“What happened?” Natasha picked up the water bottle again, sipping carefully.

“Apparently marching around in blizzards for hours without a hat on gives you the flu,” he said. “You had a hell of a fever for most of the day.”

“It wasn’t that long.”

“I sent your scans and bloodwork and whatever to Cho. She says you’re exhausted and six months overdue for down time.”

“That’s nice of her.” Down time, not if Natasha could help it. What would she do with herself? Watch paint dry? Listen to Mumford and Sons and cry a lot over her amnesiac boyfriend who didn’t remember her? That made her grin.

“It’s not a laughing matter, Widow,” he said, and there was that snap in his voice, the one that said you were a clumsy, incompetent fool and he had no time for you, no time at all. “You’re not Steve.”

“No,” she said, dully. “No, I’m not Steve.” If I were Steve, you’d know me. But that was stupid; he had never not known Steve. You couldn’t be Bucky Barnes and not remember Steve Rogers, or vice versa. If she was going to be petty and jealous, do it over something worthwhile.

He sighed, then, his face and his stance and even his voice going soft, helpless. “I wish I understood you, vixen.”

She looked up at him. He’d turned away from her, the lines of that strong body soft and vulnerable, his eyes very far away, quiet and still. Natasha stood, trembling, and he said, “Don’t,” only a little exasperated; mostly just hopeless; and she hauled off and punched him in the face.

It knocked him on his ass, which just went to show that he wasn’t in much better shape than she was. She nearly overbalanced and fell on top of him.

“The hell!” he said, sprawled across the floor in front of her with wide, shocked eyes.

Natasha held herself defiantly upright by the wall and clutched at her sore ribs and said, “Don’t you ever call me that again,” and turned away, stumbling, so he wouldn’t see her cry. But he was on his feet faster than she knew, even off his game like this, so that when he caught a hold of her and called her _Natalia_ in that tender urgent voice she wasn’t ready, wasn’t ready at all. She could love Bucky Barnes if she let herself. She was halfway there already. She’d never really stopped loving the Soldier. It hadn’t exactly been the sort of situation where you got closure and moved on like normal people; maybe in a few more years, or if he’d never come back. The jet was spinning, and he was so warm behind her, and it _hurt_ , everything hurt all the damn time, like a muscle she could never relax, and she didn’t know how to make it stop.

“Tasha,” he said, his hands slipping away, voice dulling again. Then it burst out of him. “Tasha, for god’s sake, tell me you hate me and send me away. I can’t do this anymore.”

“Send you away?” She pulled back from him. “What’s _keeping_ you, Soldier?”

His hands were open, waiting for her, reaching for her, but his face was closing down again, wiping itself of any kind of expression. “Nothing, apparently. My own stupidity. I’m sorry.”

“I wish you’d stop talking in riddles.” She had to lean against the wall next to the bunk.

“Riddles,” he repeated. “Fine.” But he staggered back a few steps and sat down on the edge of the other bunk opposite, his hands on his knees, staring at her. A long silence. Then he smiled, rather bitter, and the impersonal mask was torn away. “What’s the point of being free of ‘em if I never act like it? I love you, Nat. I love you.” He said it as if the words were enough, as if he could taste them in his mouth and savoured it. She watched him in silence, trembling with exhaustion, turning the words over and over in her mind. The damnedest thing: she’d never heard them from any other adult but him, not those exact words. He was looking at her, waiting for her; she didn't know how to answer. Finally he stood up, brushing his hands together, and sighed, sounding… she didn’t know. At peace with himself, for having said it. “We’re still about three hours out; sit down before you pass out again, have some more food.”

“That’s it?” she said quietly.

James leaned against the wall at the other end of her bunk, his hands in his pockets, smiling a little. “What else is there?”

“What else do you _want_?”

He looked surprised. “Nothing.” That stung. Natasha blinked. “Nothing I’m going to get, at any rate. Stupid to want, then, isn’t it?”

“Who told you that?”

One eyebrow rose. “We’re not friends, Romanov.”

“We’re never going to be friends,” she told him. Then she reached out to put her hand to his cheek: stubble, dry skin, chapped lips. His eyelashes dropped as he looked down at her wrist, her hand. “And this is going to end in – in heartbreak and wipes and shooting, just the same as always.” He opened his mouth; she pressed her thumb to his lips to quiet him. What was the point of being free of 'em if she never acted like it? Talk about cutting straight to the heart of the issue. One truth left. What had possessed her in the first place? Just this: “But it’ll be worth it.”

He shivered, his eyes closing, and she clutched a handful of his jacket to steady herself as she stepped into his arms.

+++

“I missed you,” she whispered, when she’d soaked his shirt with her tears, and he’d shed a few of his own. “I didn’t think there was anything left...” For me; of us.

His lips against her forehead, her hair, his arms cradling her, his body between her and the outside world, his leg across hers, possessive, protective.

“I’m here,” he said. “I’m yours.”

+++

“Merry Christmas, I don’t think,” said Steve when he caught up with them in sickbay. “Romanov, you’re off active duty till March. Doctor’s orders.”

“Ten bucks says she said February.” Natasha glared at him.

“And I’m saying March,” said Steve calmly. “Bucky…”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” James said vaguely. “I’m more than happy to take holidays whenever.” And he put his right hand on his thigh, fingers curled inward, and then turned it palm up. _Come to me tonight, I love you_.

What had possessed her? This hot, nervous happiness that filled up her stomach, the shiver in her limbs and the breathlessness that made her dizzy; the sweet excitement of knowing what it was like to be in his arms, of looking at him and thinking _I’ve had all of you and I will again_. The steady comfort of knowing herself understood, inside and out. An urge to giggle was twisting in her chest, a need to jump up and fling her arms around Steve’s neck and whoop for joy.

She reached up and touched the fingers of her left hand to her jaw just underneath her ear. _Don’t look at me or I’ll start laughing_. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him turn away, grinning.

Steve said, “Anyway, mission accomplished; just look after yourself, Nat, OK? Please.”

“All right,” she said. “I will. Barnes owes me his life,” she added, “he can come and fetch and carry for a couple of weeks.”

For a moment Steve looked surprised; then he looked glad. “I think I’d better steer well clear of that.”

+++

The first thing he fetched and carried was her, out of the cab and up to her apartment. She _could_ have walked, and he knew it, but she didn’t damn well want to. Natasha put her head on his shoulder and let him cradle her, feeling smug.

“I’m sorry I was such a vicious bitch,” she said in the elevator.

James sighed. “So was I. Nat, why not say something? All these months…”

“Afraid,” she said. “Just afraid. Afraid of hearing that you didn’t remember, and even more afraid of hearing that you didn’t want to. Anyway, why didn’t _you_?”

“I tried to kill you twice,” he said. “I figured, even if you remembered, I’d lost that right.”

She was silent as the doors opened and he carried her out into the hall. “What a pair of idiots.”

“Yeah.” He laughed quietly. She felt it rumble in his chest. “You scared me to death, passing out like that.”

No, no, they weren’t going to think of that. “James.”

“Yes?”

Natasha laughed. “Nothing. I know your name…”

He blinked, and then his face broke into a smile. “Yeah.” He had to put her down to get the door open, and she wrapped her arms around his waist and snuggled, shamelessly. If anyone had seen… if the cab driver talked…  she grinned. Here’s to hoping.

Inside she collapsed on the couch and unbuckled her boots while James wandered around the apartment, into the kitchen – where she heard him open the fridge and make a noise of exasperation; what, they’d been away for nearly two weeks – and around the living room, examining her bookshelves, her music player, checking, with absent-minded efficiency, the lines of sight from the windows.

“Forgot about food,” he said, coming over to her.

“Later,” Natasha said, slumping in the cushions.

“Don’t want you starving.” He sat down in the armchair opposite her, looking comfortable and relaxed and like he belonged in her home, his knees spread, his shoulders slumped and his hands loose, lacking any tension.

“I won’t,” she said, smiling at him.

James smiled too, and Natasha watched the curve of his mouth in fascination, the lines around his eyes, the fall of his hair, just long enough to brush his cheekbones. _I know your name. One day we’ll be free of this place.  
_

“This is gonna be fun,” she announced.

“That’s the idea,” he said, and came over to kiss her.

 

 

 


End file.
